


There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

by dylovan



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Pickles the Drummer's backstory from meeting Snakes 'n' Barrels to the present. It is titled after/inspired by the Smiths song of the same name, and it's just as gay and angst-ridden as the Smiths, although there are some pleasant bits. It's also AU-ish in a way that can't be explained without spoiling it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any spelling/grammar/continuity errors, please tell me in the comments so I can fix them, thanks.

He'd trekked from Hell on Earth to El Dorado—or, more precisely, from Tomahawk, Wisconsin to Los Angeles, California—and what did he have to show for it? Nothing. A few empty whiskey bottles, a couple ticket stubs, and a handful of broken dreams. 

Pickles had never wanted much. Sure, he had fantasies sometimes, thoughts about forming the world's biggest second-wave punk band. But everyone has harmless fantasies. What Pickles had really hoped for wasn't as as wild and specific as that. What he wanted was to leave his shitty white-trash family behind, show them he could live life on his own, that he didn't just have his head up in the clouds when he talked about his everlasting love of music. But maybe Mom and Pa and his big brother Seth were right. Maybe he was a failure. Maybe he wasn't CBGB material, but instead a punk on the street with no family, no friends, and (if he couldn't cough up this month's rent for his railway apartment soon) no home. 

He heaved a sigh. The noise blended in with the countless other noises in the dark dive bar (the talking, the raucous laughing that made him wince, the crappy local band packing up to go home for the night) and sailed away to be lost on the night like cigarette ash. 

He tossed back a fifth of gin. He knew it was stupid to drink away what little money he made from playing his guitar, but right now he didn't care. He wanted to not have to think for a bit, to be mindless and carefree like everyone else seemed to be. The guitar hung on his back like a parasite. He suddenly felt the urge to be free of it, to fling it to the wind, and to send with it all those dashed hopes. The blasted guitar had brought him nothing but trouble, trouble with his family, trouble ever since he'd arrived here in this city of sin. 

But he couldn't. It was the only thing he had. It was his only friend, and it was a good friend. It listened when he talked, was there solid like a rock when he needed a shoulder to cry on, was quiet when he needed to be alone and loud when his brain was screaming. So he clung to it as he was washed through the narrow slipstream of life, and was drowned in the undertow. He clung to it and he hated it with every ounce of searing anger he could muster, which wasn't that much at the moment, given his level of intoxication. 

He slipped a pencil stub out of his ripped jeans pocket. His questing fingers found a soggy napkin on the bar top. He began scribbling out something he didn't understand. 

_All I ever wanted was you by my side. The dreams I had for you...the way you would moan when I found that sensitive secret place on your neck, and the way I would feel when I discovered every inch of your body, your lovely lonely curves. Now I have you and I'm lost in a wasteland of my own creation. I'm drunk off you, and curves can be deadly when you're drunk._

"That's pretty good, kiddo."

Pickles looked up, anxiety disrupting his daze. "What?"

The man on the stool next to him was tall, quite pale, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. He wore a leather jacket studded with pins, and leather pants, an outfit that must have cost quite a pretty penny. His hair was dyed purple, but it gleamed orange under the seedy light. 

"I said that's pretty good poetry or whatever," the man repeated. 

"Oh, fuck, thanks," Pickles squeaked. 

"You make that up just now?" the guy said. 

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"That's good," the purple-haired guy repeated. 

Pickles was beginning to feel edgy. He was beginning to get a weird vibe, but not the expected "this guy's gonna date-rape me" way. No, this was more of a "dude, this is the beginning of something big, so pay attention" kind of vibe. 

"Who's the lucky girl you writin' to?" the guy asked. 

Pickles crumpled the bar napkin in his hand, embarrassed that this stranger had peered into the innermost sanctum of his thoughts. "Well...it's not a girl, really. It's my guitar."

The guy whistled. "I'm not sure that's normal, to be feelin' all that for an inanimate object."

Pickles shrugged. "I like guitar." 

"Hey, speaking of, you were that kid playin' guitar and singing up on stage a while ago, weren't you?" the guy asked. 

"Yeah, that was me."

Another guy, wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, with long curly hair just a shade deeper than his honey-colored skin, approached them. "Said his name was Nickels or some shit like that," he murmured to the purple-haired man. 

"Pickles," Pickles corrected him. 

"So, Pickles," the purple-haired man said, "you can sing, you can play guitar, you can write. Anything you _can't_ do?"

"Keep money," Pickles snarled. He had just one more shot before moving on to Guinness. He didn't wanna be flat on his back around these guys, he was just a kid, and strange things happened to kids like him in L.A. 

The two guys chuckled and elbowed each other in the ribs. A third, blond guy, slightly smaller but still towering over Pickles, came around from the stage, lugging along most of the bits of his drum kit with him. "Tony," he chirped to the purple-haired guy, "I'll be fucked if I carry your goddamn amps to the van one more fuckin' time."

"Looks like you are well and truly fucked, my friend," the purple-haired guy whose name was now known to be Tony said. He tapped ash off his cigarette. 

"No, you're fucked, Tony," the blond barked. "Well-and-truly-fucking whatever, you shit-eating donkey-cock-sucker! I wouldn't carry yer fuckin' gear out to the van for all the coke in L.A.!"

"Wow, Candy, how did you get yer dick out of yer mouth for long enough to spit that out?" Tony said. He ordered four shots of tequila. 

"Fuck off, Tony! Suck your mom's fat cock!...Hey, who's this kid?"

"I'm Pickles," said Pickles again. He desperately wanted to be back in his apartment. He didn't care that his roommate Kyle was a methhead, he just needed to be away from these guys. But something kept him rooted to the spot. 

"Hey, aren't you that kid who was like playing guitar earlier?" the blond whom Tony'd called Candy asked Pickles. Unlike the other two, he gave Pickles a friendly smile. 

"Yeah, that's me," Pickles said, lowering his voice to try and sound tough. 

"Ayy, Tony, weren't ya gonna ask if—"

"If there's gonna be any asking around here, I'll do it," the curly-haired man interrupted Candy. 

"Fine, whatever, man. I'm not looking for a fight," Candy said with a chipper grin. He whipped a pair of drumsticks out of his battle jacket and started pounding out a four-four rhythm on the bar. The bartender glared at him, and then gave Pickles (a regular) a look that said "If these guys give you any trouble, gimme a yell and I'll have them out on the streets on their asses in ten seconds flat." It was quite a verbose look. 

"So, are you a guy or a girl?" Candy asked Pickles. "No offense. I'm bad at telling. Some days I roll out of bed and look in the mirror and I can't even tell what I am."

"I'm a man," Pickles said. His voice cracked embarrassingly on the "man." He felt humiliated, and ran his fingers through his hairspray-matted Sid Vicious 'do to hide it. 

"You look like you're about twelve," Candy said with a grin. 

"I'm seventeen," Pickles said. He sighed. 

"Really? What are you doing out here in L.A. all alone? There's all kinds of creeps out here. Present company included," Candy said. 

"I'm not alone." Pickles lied. "I have...friends. And my guitar."

"So...other than whatever that mess up there on stage was," the curly-haired nameless man said, "what can you play?"

Ignoring the slight toward his musical ability, Pickles said, "Uh, pretty much whatever. Metal, rock, country. And I can drum as well as playing guitar too. But I really like punk."

"Punk." The curly-haired man snorted. "I love how you just throw that in there with that real music. And country."

"Snazz, he didn't ask for your big-headed pretentiousness," Tony said. 

Four shots slid across the bar. Candy nodded to Pickles and mouthed "Drink up."

"What, me, pretentious?" Snazz downed his shot and coughed lustily. "Just because I have the superior taste in music, and all you guys can't see the truth? Punk is shit."

Pickles' fists clenched. For him, this would be the equivalent of Russia blowing raspberries at the U.S. during the Cold War, and then sending them messages reading "YOU'RE GAY." He attempted to calm down and tasted the tequila. Powerful stuff. 

"Let him be," Candy said. "Oh my fucking god. He's just finding himself. Snazz, nobody asked for your opinion!"

"We have to teach this kid what real music is," Snazz said. He swung one foot onto the stool next to him, attempting a dramatic Captain Morgan pose. "We have to teach him how to rock."

"Stop it, Snazz," Tony said, a note of warning in his voice.

"I thought punk rock _was_ rock," Candy said, sounding lost. 

In his mind, Snazz's gaze could have leveled platoons. "When I was a young boy, growing up in Detroit," he said, "life was tough. But I was tougher. I had to be, to make it out alive! I ran with the fastest, fought with the toughest, got bitten but bit back harder! And when I got out of that squandering hellhole, do you know where I went?"

"Where," Candy and Tony chorused, like this had happened a thousand times before. 

"Right HERE!" Snazz thundered. "To the City of Angels, o majestic queen of cities, o glistening jewel on the bedazzled coronet that is California! And do you know who I met on these sainted grounds, the moment I set foot on my eternal homeland?"

"Who," Tony and Candy groaned, rolling their eyes. 

"None other than our savior, our messiah, second coming of Christ Himself, my lord in this world, the last, and the next...ERIC CLAPTON! I bowed before Him, and was pants-shittingly surprised when He told me to rise! He Himself blessed my Les Paul, and lay His cool and powerful hands upon my fevered brow! And do you know what He told me?"

"What," Candy and Tony sighed in exasperation. 

"'My son,' he said, 'My son...go forth and save rock.' So I traveled from distant land to land, spreading His word of rock and roll through the four corners of the Earth, nay, the very Universe, so that His awesome guitar solos could ring through the crystal spheres that fill the previously-meaningless void above! And, to maintain brevity, I will NOT sit here while you defame the very purpose of all existence with your SHITTY PUNK MUSIC!"

Snazz dropped back to his seat and fumed for a moment, full of righteous indignation. Pickles blinked, nonplussed. He'd never experienced anything like that in his entire life, and he didn't think he'd care to repeat it. 

Candy patted Snazz on the back. "Shh, go to your happy place..." he soothed. 

"He always does this when he's drunk," Tony added as an aside to Pickles. "Every fuckin' time."

"Uh...wow," Pickles said. 

After a couple more emergency drinks Snazz snapped out of it. "So, he said to Pickles, "what we've all been tryin' to say is—"

"—We're looking for a singer," Tony said. "We all tried. Snazz can't sing when he plays guitar, Candy can't sing when he drums—"

"Tony just can't sing period," Snazz said. 

"And maybe also another guitarist," Candy added. He saw the look Snazz gave him. "Not that Snazz isn't enough! Of course not. Just to keep the rhythm and stuff."

"So we were wondering—" Tony said. 

"—Wanna join our band?" they all said at once. 

Pickles looked at the ragtag group of drunk and shitty musicians. They all looked like messes, and sounded like messes too. Did Pickles really want to tie himself to these freaks?

He downed the rest of his drink. Go hard or go home. His pierced lips curved into a crooked smile for the first time in...well, the first time he could remember since he'd got to this miserable place. 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think so."

_Take me out tonight  
Where there's music and there's people   
Who are young and alive   
Driving in your car  
I never, never want to go home   
Because I haven't got one anymore_

Pickles, Pickles the depressed, greasy, pierced punk teen, Pickles the raw and angry reject—now Pickles the glam rocker? More likely than you'd think. 

Sure; the upbeat tempos, the overproduced singles, the lyrics about fucking chicks and snorting coke weren't exactly what he was used to. But when you got down to it, past the leather, glitter, and eyeshadow, it was still rock, the object of his attraction, good and angry and rebellious. What was really the difference between liberty spikes and a teased mullet, when you got right down to it? Their looks didn't really change the music or the spirit. All they were good for was grabbing attention. 

And their band, Snakes 'n' Barrels, certainly was grabbing attention. All their singles so far had charted. They'd got a sweet deal from a brand-new publishing company with a prefab reputation for cranking out heavy hits called Ramshorn Records. Now they'd recorded their first album, called _Tailspin,_ which was due to hit the market in just a few months. In the meantime, Snakes 'n' Barrels were touring America, playing the biggest gigs they could, in hopes of drumming up fanfare for the record. So far things were looking pretty good. 

They were on a bus across the dusty Midwest; nothing much to see but sky and fields. It was around noon, a bit early for the guys to be up, but yesterday had been pretty uneventful, so up they were. 

Snizzy Snazz Bullets had his Clapton-blessed guitar out and was trying to play along with some Zep tune on his transistor radio. His fingers fumbled over the strings. He was just too high to play, it seemed. He cursed. 

Sammy Candynose Twinskins whistled as he sprayed hairspray all around Snazz. It clouded around his head. The guitarist coughed halfheartedly. "Wear your hair long, babe, you can't go wrong," Candy trilled as he whipped the comb through Snazz's unmanageable curls. 

At first the guys had all tried to do their own hair. This quickly failed, which they realized after a spectacularly failed promo shoot in which they resembled nothing as much as a bunch of sheepdogs with instruments—except Sammy. Sammy's hair always looked perfect. The guys were bathed in its radiant golden glow, which made the rest of them look even shittier in comparison.

Finally Sammy admitted that he'd gone to beautician school before moving to L.A. and making it big. Now the drummer was in charge of all the hair and makeup for the band. He'd scoffed in particular at Tony's hair, which was fried from all the bleaching and dying, and prescribed twice-weekly deep-conditioning treatments.

"All done!" Candy said. He clapped his hands to himself and moved around to see Snazz's face. He grabbed the guitarist's pronounced chin and twisted his face side to side. "Ah, you're positively glowing, darling. Just a touch of eyeshadow and mascara, I think, love."

Snazz made a face at Antonio DiMarco Thunderbottom, the bassist, who was looking through a newspaper to see if there were any articles about the band. Tony made a face back. They had come to the conclusion that there was something Candy wasn't telling the rest of them. Namely that he was really really fucking gay. Or else just really glam. 

What was the difference, anyway?

Tony found what he was looking for. "Guys, listen to this," he said. He read a review of the band. 

"'Up-and-coming Los Angeles-based metal act Snakes 'n' Barrels have risen from obscurity practically into the spotlight of rock and roll. With their latest single, "They Call Me the Rattler" b/w "Kill You," S'n'B have proven themselves worthy of this spotlight, showing a blend of glam metal and hardcore punk never before seen, with no expenses spared in the special effects department for their tours. Of particular interest is the previously-unknown vocalist/lead guitarist who rose to fame seemingly instantaneously, known only by the name "Pickles." The band are currently on tour across America, but tickets are selling fast, so get them while you can. To Snakes 'n' Barrels, a band with a legendary stage act and a true rags-to-riches story, we hope to hear more from you.'

"Didja hear that?" Tony smiled. "We're legendary." He tasted the strange word, detecting hints of champagne, caviar, and platinum records. 

"Yeah, and since when is Pickles the lead guitarist?" Snazz crossed his arms and frowned. "And since when are we 'punk?'" He spat the word out the way someone would spit out a human finger they found in their bucket of KFC. 

"Since you began getting too high on the road to tell your bridge from your headstock, Bullets," Tony said. 

"Fuck you, man," Snazz groaned. "Ugh."

Candy paused from snorting coke off his pile of fan mail to look at the article. There was a tiny picture of the band at the top of it. 

"Oh my god, my ass looks so big there!" Candy said. 

"It does not," Tony said. 

"Yes it does. Oh my god. I bet it has its own gravitational pull."

"You're kidding, it looks..." Tony squinted at the picture. "Really good actually," he said. "How do you keep in shape like that? Damn."

"I just don't eat," Candy trilled. 

"That's fucking dumb," Tony opined. 

"Who needs food when you have cocaine and amphetamines!!" Candy chirped. 

"I can drink to that," Tony said. He lifted his bottle of Jack and discovered that it was empty. "Fuck. Snizzy, get me a drink!"

"I'm not getting up, you dirty motherfucker. And don't call me Snizzy."

"Snizzy Snaaaaazz," Tony went. "Oh well." He got up and went to the fridge to grab a beer. "Hey Candy! You want a beer?"

"It's appletinis or nothing for me, daaaaarling," Candy whirred. 

"You faggot. Hey Bullets, you want a beer?"

There was the sound of the guitarist sleep-choking on vomit. 

"Alrighty then, I'll take that as a no. Hey Pickles, you wanna beer?"

There was no answer. 

"Pickles?"

Now he knew why the bus had felt so strangely empty. Pickles the singer was holed up in the bedroom he and Candy shared. Tony grabbed another beer and went to go get him. 

He walked in on something unexpected: Pickles was injecting something into his arm. The redhead looked around at the unwelcome intrusion and blanched like he'd seen a ghost. 

"Hey, sorry," Tony said. "Just wanted to know if you wanted a beer."

"Oh—um—sure?" Pickles said. His voice quavered. 

"Here ya go." Tony tossed it onto the bed, then flopped over beside Pickles. "Hey, shooting up? Without me?"

"Haha, I guess," Pickles said, cracking open the beer awkwardly. He wasn't sure how he could crack a beer open awkwardly but you could give any task to Pickles and he could make it awkward. 

"Seriously, man, I thought you weren't into that kinda shit," Tony said, more quietly. He was actually a bit protective of the singer. They all were; he was young and small and innocent, "five feet six inches of adorable ginger," as Candy put it. "You better be using clean needles and shit. I can get you some if you aren't. And maybe you shouldn't be drinking—"

Internally, Pickles laughed, because Tony was probably the worst person to give him a lecture about this kind of thing. But he realized that he'd have to tell the bassist the truth.

"Well...it's not heroin or whatever, exactly," he said. 

"Meth? Pickles, don't start on that shit. Our last singer is still in rehab."

"No, it's not really, uh, recreational drugs," Pickles said. "It's, uh, medicine."

"Medicine? Like how Sammy snorts coke to cover up his rampant homosexuality?" Tony took a swig of his beer. 

"No! I mean actual medicine." Pickles rubbed his temples. "Like. I have a, um, an illness, okay? I need medicine to fix it."

"Is it AIDS?" Tony said. "Do you need to shoot up medicines for AIDS? Have you been doin' people in the butt?"

"Fuck, Tony, no!" Pickles laughed, despite the fact that he was trying to stay serious. "It's...well, I had it for a long time and now that I have money, I can try to treat it."

"Oh, like diabetes?" Tony asked. "My aunt had diabetes. She shot up, uh,  
inulskins or something for her diabetes. She had to get both her legs chopped off...Shit! Pickles, what if you have to get your legs chopped off?"

"It's not diabetes, Tony!" Pickles laughed again. "I won't get my legs chopped off. And even if I did, I'd keep playin' with you guys. In a wheelchair or some shit...no, it's a little bit like that, but not really. I jest have to keep taking these shots for a while and then I'll be better. So don't worry 'bout me, okay?"

"Alright."

They were quiet. Tony was aware that he'd breached a sensitive topic, and he didn't want to hurt his singer/apparently lead guitarist. He glanced over at Pickles. The redhead softly strummed his guitar, then tried some fingerpicking instead of his usual shredding and power chords. 

Pickles' hair was growing out from the choppy punk cut he'd had mere months ago. The ruby-red strands hung in bed-mussed wisps about his face in a manner that would've seemed odd on anyone else, but on Pickles just seemed, well, Pickles-esque. Sometimes he tied it back with a bandana, but not today. 

His hair wasn't the only thing that was changing. The baby fat was disappearing from his face to be replaced by angular cheekbones and a chiseled jawline. The boyish freckles on his face and shoulders were fading. His voice had dropped a bit; it was still pitchy but not as squeaky, and he could manage unbelievably alluring low groans and growls on their songs. He even seemed to be a bit taller. Maybe soon he'd be able to hit 5'8" in his red leather cowboy boots. 

Out of all the members of the band, it seemed Pickles had been changed by their newfound semi-fame the most. 

Ginger peachfuzz covered his jaw and caught what little sunlight made it in through the Venetian blinds. Pickles looked up, startled but not scared by the feeling of Tony's fingers tracing over his cheek. 

"Haven't you ever shaved before?" Tony said. 

"Uh...no," said Pickles. 

"Really? What are you, eighteen, never shaved? I'll have to teach you."

"Seventeen, actually," Pickles said with that shy sideways smile of his. That crooked smile was deadly. It snuck up on you imperceptibly and then thumped you over the head. "Tony, I think I should tell you something." His fingers aimlessly formed little D-shaped power chords. "I wasn't really seventeen when you found me in that bar in L.A. I was only sixteen."

"Sixteen in that bar in L.A.? Kid, you're lucky we got to you before the pimps did."

"Hah. Basically the same thing as you guys."

"How'd they think you were old enough to drink?"

"Fake I.D. Usually I'd hang out in that same bar. The bartender was old, pretty much blind. Plus, I think he liked me. Adults usually like me, dunno why."

"You're charming enough," Tony said. "Must be. Did you hear me read our review? The press loved you, god damn."

"I heard a bit of it." Pickles smirked and looked down, somehow both cocky and embarrassed at once. In the end he didn't go either way. "I couldn't do it without you guys, though. Dude, remember, I don't even write hardly any of the songs. And Snazz pretty much always tells me what to play."

"Just face the facts, man, you're brilliant," Tony said. "C'mon, say it for me. Candy and Bullets and me can all say it, why can't you?"

"Fine, I'll say it," Pickles said. "Um. I...am...brilliant. Sort of. With a lotta help from you guys."

"Close enough," Tony said with a smile. 

_Take me out tonight  
Because I want to see people and I want to see life  
Driving in your car   
Oh please don't drop me home  
Because it's not my home, it's their home   
And I'm welcome no more_

Recently, Pickles had gotten into the habit of sharing hotel rooms with people on tour. Snakes 'n' Barrels were currently on their third tour, this time co-heading with another, older glam band, Zazz Blammymatazz, to Canada and the U.K. in addition to the U.S. The papers were all raving about the band. 

Their second, as-of-yet-unpublished album _Tailspin II: Kickin' Tail and Takin' Names_ had a more commercial, palatable tone. Pickles in particular was leaning less and less toward punk, and more toward the poppy, energetic glam style he'd originally questioned the sanity of. He discovered how fun it was to doll himself up in eyeliner and body glitter and tease his flowing red mane to give himself an extra several inches in height (Candy had given him some tips). Now he practically dressed in drag on stage. 

Tonight, though, there were no shows. It was three in the morning and their jet-lagged bodies slumped into worn mattresses. Five rooms; two for roadies, three for band members. 

Pickles yawned and didn't bother to remove his makeup and fishnet-filled sequin-emblazoned outfit off before falling into bed next to Tony. The bassist was nicest to share a room with. 

Candy was sweet (no pun intended) but when they hung out he was no good for anything except watching old Saturday Night Live reruns, and shallow conversations about whose ass and whose hair. When the others didn't demand his attention, he tended to stay up all night getting high and fucking the groupies (female, male, and other) who fawned over him. Also, on this tour he was hanging out with the members of Zazz Blammymatazz almost more than his own band, for the reason that they were all coke-fiends and rabid party animals. The members of the other band were always seen dressed in neon clown costumes, even offstage. Pickles wasn't overly fond of clowns. 

Bullets wasn't much better. The other guitarist was usually sardonic and reserved, except when it came to talking about music, when he was the most fiery member of the band. This already didn't sit well with Pickles, who liked to sometimes have conversations that didn't end in his music taste being shot down. He loved the guitarist, but he could be a handful. On the good side, his opiate use had plateaued; on the bad side, he was now constantly tripping on acid. He'd wake Pickles up in the middle of the night claiming to be God, or to have found the meaning of life. Admittedly, this wasn't too far off from his normal behavior, but sometimes he got a scary look in his eyes that made Pickles want to hide. 

No, all the singer wanted to do was drink, talk, drink, listen to music, and then drink until he passed out, preferably before 10 AM. Yeah, he was partial to a little grass, and he'd take whatever mysterious pills were pressed into his hand in a dark nightclub, but booze was his true love. So he stayed with Tony, who thought like him, had a great sense of humor, was willing to mentor him, and was an all-round fantastic drinking partner. 

This night, just like the twelve nights before it, Pickles curled up with his face into the pillow and felt Tony slowly cuddle up beside him, sharing the warmth. Tony smelled like booze, sweat, hairspray, and leather. Pickles smiled. It was comforting, in a weird way. 

He was almost asleep when Tony said, "Hey, Wicked, why do you keep sharing rooms with me? Not that I mind, I'm just wondering."

Tony gave everyone nicknames. No one even remembered Candy's or Snazz's real names. Apparently Pickles' nickname was just "Wicked." He didn't mind this. 

"Hey, I can't spend a li'l time with my bassist without gettin' the third degree?" Pickles slurred. He was facing the wall, away from Tony. He felt the bassist's hands play with his hair. 

"Hey, just sayin'," Tony said. He yawned, and realized something. "Hey, you've been sharing hotel rooms, taking public transit, eating the cheapest shit at restaurants? Wicked, are you cheap?"

"Whaddya mean, cheap?" Pickles rolled over onto his back and smiled up at the dark, peeling ceiling. 

"Trying to save money for something. What are you savin' up for?"

Pickles sighed. Tony could be weirdly observant at times. He could cut through all the bullshit and find out whatever was on Pickles' mind in just a few words. 

"Savin' up fer a chopper," he said dreamily. 

"You got one already," Tony said. He propped himself up on his elbow. 

"Uh...savin' up fer a new guitar."

"Don't feed me that bullshit, man, I know you'd never part with Sheena." Sheena was Pickles' Les Paul. 

"Fine. You wanna know the fuckin' truth, An-toni-o?" Pickles drawled. 

"Yeah, you douche, that's why I'm askin'."

"I need money for an operation," Pickles said. 

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Pickles said. "It's kind of expensive."

"This is that same thing you were takin' shots for a while ago, isn't it?" Tony said. 

"Yeah." Pickles was kind of surprised Tony remembered that. 

"What is it for?"

"Uh...I gotta problem with my chest," Pickles said. 

"Like, lungs?" 

"Kinda."

"Is it cancer?"

Pickles looked over. Tony was even paler in the moonlight, pale with something besides moonlight, pale with fear.

"It's not cancer, Tony," Pickles said quietly. "I promise you."

"Fuck, Pickles, you never even smoked that much! I smoked more than you! Why couldn't it be me needing operations instead—"

"I don't have cancer, Tony!" Pickles said. "I promise you, I'm not gonna die." He pressed a hand against the front of the black T-shirt Tony'd worn to bed. "I would tell you."

"You sure?" 

"Definitely, Tony. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Okay." Tony settled back down. "Fuck. You scared me."

His arms found their way around Pickles' waist, and pulled him closer. Pickles snuggled sleepily into his bandmate's arms. It was weird for someone to want physical contact with him. His family had never been big on hugging. Well, truth be told, they'd just never been big on Pickles. But he felt at home, now, even if they were in a shitty hotel room with a mysteriously stained twin bed to share, because if home was where your heart was, Pickles' home was Tony. 

"You're like my best friend ever," Pickles whispered. "I wouldn't lie to you. I'm gonna be fine after the operation, don't worry about me."

"I could help you out, uh, money-wise, if you want," Tony said. He got a slightly bigger chunk of cash then the rest of the band did, due to his writing most of the lyrics. 

"No, bro, I couldn't let you. No way." And Pickles wouldn't hear any more of it. 

"Fine," Tony whispered. "Goodnight, you stubborn bugger."

"G'night, Tony."

Tony gently brushed Pickles' hair out of his face and kissed his forehead before he fell asleep. 

_And if a double decker bus  
Crashes into us  
To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die  
And if a ten ton truck  
Kills the both of us  
To die by your side  
Well the pleasure, the privilege is mine_

Snakes 'n' Barrels had done it again. _Tailspin II_ reached unprecedented levels in the charts. The band could afford more smack, more booze, more blow, more whores. The groupies had started noticing that there were, in fact, other members of the band beside pretty-boy Sammy, and the band had all the pussy they could get. Especially Pickles, although the singer rarely indulged this vice. Rumors circulated that no groupie had ever actually seen his dick, which of course spurred them on to get a glimpse of it, and maybe more than a glimpse. The singer, however, was drinking more than ever. He was keeping up with Tony, which was saying something. Tony had reportedly said "I think if I actually stopped drinking for one day, the cumulative hangover would literally fucking kill me."

Yeah, S'n'B were pretty much on top of the world. Or so it seemed...

Lately, Tony hadn't been able to get Pickles off his mind. The singer's laugh (easy and carefree, pouring from his lips like spiced rum from the mouth of a bottle) and his crooked smile (o heaven-sent curse! o wondrous, terrifying beam of dark light!) and even his jade-green eyes, the eyes that had seemed so strange and snake-like when they first met. They still contained that boyish innocence, but could they hold something else, too? Sometimes on dark nights when they had nothing to hold but their bottles and each other, it seemed that way. The green would deepen to nearly brown, the singer would grip the neck of the bottle with his pale and lovely hands and lick whatever alcohol they were having that night off his plush lips. Sometimes he'd lick the booze off Tony's lips too, although they were both very drunk whenever this happened and nothing ever became of it but clashing teeth. Could Pickles possibly feel the same way Tony did?

No, never. He was certain of this as he drained another bottle in his lonely (curse their money for making his love well again, giving him that operation, taking him away) hotel room. No one would ever feel a love so pure, so deep, so heartrending as he did. Besides, what would Pickles want from him? What did he have to offer that myriads of groupies didn't? Just his pathetic, disgusting love. Yes, he was certain that Pickles would spurn his love, kick him like a dog to the curb, if he ever found out. No one could ever know about this. 

The collection of newspaper clippings slowly had become something of a portable shrine. He pulled one picture, his favorite one, out of its spot in his suitcase. It was a glamor shot of the singer, slouching seductively on a leopard-print couch in nearly see-through clothes. His eyelids were lowered, a smirk aimed at the camera. He held a green lollipop and the tip of his tongue was darting out, catlike, to lick it. 

Tony bit his lip. He felt a rush of pleasure at seeing his boy laid out like that, posed and objectified, although he didn't like the thought of all their fans seeing the picture. 

Was it his _boy,_ though? Pickles was probably almost 20. Certainly he was 18. Almost 18, at the very least. Who cared how much older Tony was? Age was just a number, and you can't measure love with numbers. Pickles had a perfectly trimmed goatee and sideburns that set off those amazing cheekbones. The muscles in his arms were more defined. And Tony was sure, yes, sure he'd grown in _other_ ways too, as he looked at what looked like a telling bulge the singer sported, tenting leather chaps in the picture. His boy was a man now. 

The bassist's fingers couldn't help but sneak down and undo his belt, and he sighed as he rubbed his own hardness through the tight confine of his boxers. He imagined the slender pianist's fingers of his porcelain, auburn-locked Adonis wrapping around his wanting shaft instead, and moaned. 

There was a knock on the door. "Hey! Tony! Ya decent?"

It was Pickles, of course he'd come in at the worst second..."Just a sec!" Tony yelled, his voice cracking. The picture was buried deep in the suitcase. His boner was tucked, slightly painfully, into his belt. He found another bottle of liquid courage and cracked the lid. "Come in."

Pickles sauntered in, cradling his guitar and carrying a notebook. "Sammy and that Rockso guy are bugging me," he said. The coke-fiend clown singer was pretty much a member of their family by now. "I'm gonna hang out here, okay?"

"Sure thing, kiddo," Tony said. "What do I whoop their asses for this time?"

"They're buggin' me...saying that all this makeup makes me a girl." He wiped tears out of his eyeliner-ringed eyes and angrily flicked them out. 

"You're twice the man they ever could be," Tony said. He got out rum and coke and ice, started mixing Pickles a drink. 

"Two times zero is still zero," Pickles said flatly. He strummed an E minor. 

"Wicked, you know what I mean," Tony said. "Besides, ignore them. I'm your bro." He swooped in and kissed Pickles' forehead. Ever since that night when Pickles had told him about the operation and he'd kissed him, he'd do it again whenever the singer seemed in need of having his spirits lifted. It always worked like a charm, an even more succinct way of saying "I'm here for you. I love you."

"Give me a smile, now," Tony said, smiling himself as he filled a glass for Pickles. 

Pickles couldn't help but smile. "You're right. You always are."

"Damn straight," Tony said. "Why don't you try writing a song about it? That can get some of those nasty old emotions out."

"Good idea." Pickles began to make something up. 

"Everybody's always buggin' me, Always bringin' me down,  
Sayin' I ain't like the resta S'n'B,   
Can't keep hangin' around.   
But I know something they don't know,   
Something that'd spite those stuck-up dudes,   
And it's that I'm best friends with An-toni-o,   
So they can fuckin' suck it, dudes!"

Tony laughed when Pickles attempted to bow while sitting down. Pickles gave him a huge grin and continued searching for a chord. 

When the bassist was done Pickles' drink, his hand slipped into his pocket and curled around a small object. He wondered if this would be wrong, immoral. 

But if just one kiss brought the boy so much bliss, imagine what a good fucking could do...

Tony pulled the tiny plastic bottle out of his pocket. Inside it was a tiny amount of gammahydroxybutyrate, liquid ecstasy. Sometimes he'd spike his booze with it when he wasn't feeling up to facing the day. In small amounts, it can produce effects similar to those of ecstasy, hence the name; in slightly larger amounts it can lead nasty things like disorientation and loss of consciousness and death. 

He dripped quite a bit into Pickles' rum and coke. Then he brought it over. 

"Here ya go," Tony said with a smile. Pickles gratefully took the drink and slurped most of it down, wanting to numb the pain the teasing had left him with. 

"Dude, this stuff tastes kinda funny. Sure y'ain't tryin' to poison me?" The singer grinned. 

"I dunno, man. I think it's off-brand Coke, if that makes any difference."

"Good enough for me." Pickles drank the rest and licked his lips, then smacked the glass down on the bedside table. 

Tony got his bass out. "Hey, Pickles..."

"Dude, sweet!" Despite their entire lives revolving around music, Tony and Pickles hardly ever got to just jam, which was a shame since Tony knew some tricks even Pickles didn't. They sat on the bed and noodled around. 

Around ten minutes later, Tony noticed Pickles blinking funny and slurring his words a bit more than was normal. Five minutes after that, the guitarist pressed a shaky hand to his forehead. 

"I don't feel so good," he groaned. He looked pale and woozy. 

"Here, lie down, maybe it was something you ate," Tony said. "I'll grab you a drink of water, 'kay?" He left for the kitchenette. 

To Pickles, everything felt numb and tingly. Chills swept down from his scalp through the rest of him. The world was blurry. It felt like he had the bastard child of a bad trip and a hangover. 

He could barely move his fingers. Even his breathing slowed. Everything else seemed to slow down, too. He felt every atom of the grubby sheets against his flesh, knew every thought the stale wind had. Time stretched out. 

The drink...Tony had been kind of looking at him weird lately. Acting all edgy around him. Kissing him and hugging him a lot, defending him from the other bandmates. 

The drink had tasted funny. 

No, Tony would never do that. Tony was his _bro,_ dude. This was just something he'd eaten. 

He could barely blink his eyes open as time snapped back to normal, stinging like an elastic band around his wrist. Everything sounded weird, like he was blacking-out drunk, but he'd barely had anything to drink yet today. 

Tony was walking back into the room. Pickles felt cold hands on his forehead. "Wicked, you want some water?" 

He couldn't open his mouth to say no, something with a bit more alcohol, please. 

Tony set the water on the coffee table. He turned the lights out—as if that would make it better, as if Judgement Day's eyes would be blinded by darkness as well—and got onto the bed beside Pickles. Propped the singer's head up on a pillow; sure, Tony was nothing if not considerate. He started kissing the singer again. This was nothing like how they usually kissed. It felt dark, needy, filthy. He couldn't breathe with Tony's lips on his, but he couldn't say anything about it, nothing at all. 

He didn't really think "Why me?" or "I have to stop this." He didn't really think anything. It was hard to think, with Tony on top of him, sapping his heat, sapping the warm rum and the sweet coke from his lips, leaving more chills behind. Pickles felt his shirt being dragged off in the darkness. He was able to grunt out a wordless syllable of protest. Tony jumped. After Pickles didn't appear to move for a minute, Tony continued. 

"Can you hear me?" Tony whispered in Pickles' ear. "Blink twice if you can hear me."

Pickles didn't blink. He didn't open his eyes at all. He pretended he was passed-out like he was supposed to be. 

"Mm," Tony moaned. He slipped his tongue between Pickles' lips again. To the singer, everything felt ice-cold. It was like having a corpse on top of him. A living corpse. "I love you, baby."

Something inside Pickles caught flame at this. Tony loved him. The heat ran through him, exhilarating and repulsive simultaneously. 

Tony loved him. 

His eyes struggled open. The bassist was still wearing the open vest, showing his pale and hairless chest. His purple hair was frizzy. He was undoing the singer's belt. 

"Don'," Pickles rasped. 

Tony jumped again. This time he knew Pickles was awake. 

"Don'...do dat," Pickles managed. 

Tony hesitated. 

"Love you," Pickles slurred. "But. Have been...hiding s'mething from you."

Tony dismissed this as the drug talking. He knew Pickles would never love him. 

He slid Pickles' jeans zipper down, then his underpants.

"Stop," Pickles moaned. Just a faint gust of wind, nothing more. He managed to twitch his fingers a bit. Could the drug be wearing off already? Didn't Tony give him enough?

Tony's questing fingers were greeted by soft curls of red hair below the singer's belt, just like he'd been dreaming of for so long. But here the dream turned bad. Below this, there was nothing. No cock. He fumbled for it. It was the sexual equivalent of going downstairs in the night, expecting an extra step where there's only floor, and tripping over your own feet. It was ridiculous. No cock. 

He pulled Pickles' pants down all the way, searching as if the missing organ must be hiding from him. Still no cock. His fingers met with soft, slick, dripping wet pussy instead. He stared into Pickles' half-drugged eyes, bewildered. 

"Tha's it," Pickles slurred. "My big...shecret. I'm not a boy. You fucking happy, An-toni-o?"

Tony stared at Pickles' confusing body. Everything kind of made sense. The shots, the late puberty, the surgery that was never fully explained...Tony ran his fingers over Pickles' pale chest, expecting him to draw away. He moved closer instead. Under his pecs the bassist could feel twisted, dimpled scars. 

He crawled down the bed and planted a kiss on Pickles' stomach. "No," he said quietly. "You're not a boy." 

Pickles winced and shuddered at this. Tears dripped down his cheeks. Tony kissed a trail further down, further down, until his lips found the singer's sheath. 

"Because you're a man, Red."

He kissed him in exactly the right spot. A different kind of shudder at this, and for the rest of that night (and quite a while afterward) the singer knew what love was.

_Take me out tonight  
Take me anywhere, I don't care  
I don't care, I don't care  
And in the darkened underpass  
I thought oh God, my chance has come at last  
But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask_

They all knew it. The last album, the one that had been delayed for years, the one everyone had been waiting for, the one lauded by critics around the world as a perfect glam-metal record—it was bullshit. 

Maybe it was good because it was bullshit. Maybe the rage pretending to be indifference, the lust masquerading as love, maybe these emotions finally boiling to the top like something horrible and dead rising from the depths of a swamp was what rocketed them into rock history. 

Yes, they were tired of it. No suicides, no fights, no drama, just four finally-grown men who had seen it all, had the world and grown weary of it. 

Pickles was tired of pretending he didn't care who knew his Secret. Sure, he didn't mind Tony knowing. The spark had long since faded from their passion, they'd put on weight and gone half deaf and wrecked their bodies with constant pleasure, but it was comforting to have a lover who knew him so well. Tony was like a worn-out shirt that's so comfortable you can't bring yourself to throw it away. 

The groupies, on the other hand...he'd had enough of their reactions. On one side of the scale was not even asking, pretending not to notice that his genitalia didn't exactly match how he looked on the outside (for the record: grizzled, vaguely potbellied, already balding). On the other side were the ones who had extreme reactions, either disgust or intense fetishization. Only a few had ever had the reaction he wanted...and he wasn't even sure what that reaction was. 

He wasn't perfect. Sure, he was a puzzle missing a lot of pieces—parental love, education, meaningful relationships beside the unorthodox one he had with Tony, a dick—but he thought he'd been okay, up until now. 

The music? The music was dead, a shambling corpse of what had once been a great leader. Maybe it had never been alive. Sheena was in her coffin, put to sleep, perhaps forever. Wicked/Red was dead, too. Pickles was a widower and a ghost now. 

They continued the promo tour until it ended, then parted ways. Their contract was up, and Ramshorn didn't want them anymore. They were old, used up. The company wanted new kids, new victims to squeeze the lifeblood out of, like so many human tubes of toothpaste. Grunge was the next big thing. Who wanted glam? Who wanted teased hair and clownlike makeup and perverted fishnets when you could have dirty, choppy hair and greasy skin and jeans with more hole than actual fabric?

And so Snakes 'n' Barrels' legacy ended not with a bang, but with a halfhearted handshake and false promises to call back, and sour tastes in everyone's mouth. A few months from now, the band was ancient history to the rest of the hungry, fickle world.

It was the worst possible way to end anything. 

Pickles sold his chopper, sold his house, sold the image he'd worked his fingers to the bone for, and pocketed the money. Makeup was washed away; clothes were stripped off and exchanged for perfectly functional, normal-jackoff ones; trademark fiery red mane, now receding faster every time he looked at it, went into dreads. All the piercings came out, too, except two in each eyebrow—what was he, a fucking Mormon? And then Pickles crept back to the closest thing he could call home: a shitty, seedy bar. Not in L.A. this time; no, he was in Orlando, Florida, where they'd left off on tour. He wasn't even 25. 

He'd given up on life. Life really was like a box of chocolates, he thought as he downed his gin. A shitty present no one ever asked for, but everyone always got it anyway, and soon it'd be eaten up and forgotten. 

With his luck, he should've known that life wasn't done putting him through the wringer just yet. 

The next band onstage were different from the rest. It was just two guys, one singing and one on guitar, plus a hired drummer who played just as unimaginably sloppy as you could get. 

There was no long-winded Wonderwall introduction. The long-haired lead singer just growled "We're Dethklok," before they broke into a storm of death metal thrashing. As Pickles watched the stage, somehow the dimming light in his eyes was rekindled. 

Maybe metal wasn't dead. Maybe grunge wasn't our new overlord. 

With every song, Pickles' opinion was just strengthened. The set was fairly short, so he didn't have to make the fire in his heart wait long before he approached them 

This was it. No more hairspray and studded shoulder pads, just good old-fashioned brutality. Pickles hadn't touched the drums in years, but his hands were tapping and his feet were thumping and he was actually feeling a beat. This was it, the splash of cold water on his face he'd been craving. A new dawn began, and that dawn's name was...

Dethklok, apparently. Kind of a weird name for a band, but whatever. 

He squeezed backstage somehow and watched them from the shadows, heart pounding. He thought he was older than both of them, but he felt like just a kid again. 

"We were shitty tonight," the guitarist, the one with the questionable goatee, said. 

"I don't think it was that bad," the singer said. He seemed quiet and reserved, in contrast to his rough demonic stage persona. "The audience seemed to like it. I dunno."

"That fucking drummer...where is he?" 

A flustered-looking bald man ducked around the corner, and pulled his duct-taped headphones off. 

"Drummer!" the guitarist barked. 

"My name is Doug," said the bald man. He nervously chewed a drumstick. 

"You're fired. You're holding us back. Get out."

The arrogant guitarist grabbed a bottle of vodka off a shitty card table and chugged it down like it was water. Now that Pickles got a closer look at him, he seemed older than Pickles, or maybe he'd just aged poorly. The singer looked babyfaced in comparison. Both men were tall, pale and dark-haired...just like a certain bassist Pickles had previously been quite fond of. 

"Now we're out another rhythm section," Nathan said. "Third one this week."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped letting these shitheads play with us just because they're your friends the band wouldn't suck so much."

"Maybe if you'd stop being so nitpicky and perfectionist-y we'd be able to actually keep together a lineup for more than two hours," the broad-shouldered singer muttered. 

The guitarist wiped vodka off his mouth with one wrinkled hand. "What was that? Did I hear dissent?"

"No, Magnus, you didn't," the singer growled. "Fuck. Where are we going to find a drummer on such short notice?"

Go hard or go home, Pickles urged himself. He slipped out of the shadows and said "Uh, hey."

The two musicians stared at him. "Who the fuck are you?" the singer growled. Growling seemed to be his normal mode of talking. His green eyes were wide with...was that recognition?

"You don't know me, I don't think. But I heard you were looking for a drummer."

"Were you watching us?" Magnus, the guitarist, hissed. "We don't take kindly to spies, you know."

"Dude, chill out," the singer grunted. 

"You? Nathan, you're telling me to chill?! Ahaha, that's rich!" Magnus said. He did not look chill at all. "I got chill comin' out the fuckin' wazoo, okay? Don't you fuckin' worry your pretty little head about how chill I am. You could store ice cream in me."

"Fine, whatever." Nathan, the singer, rolled his eyes. 

"I'm a drummer," said Pickles. 

"What bands did you play in?" Magnus asked. 

"Just, oh, Snakes 'n' Barrels," Pickles said. He attempted to keep some of the sarcastic tone out of his voice, but didn't succeed entirely. This fact didn't exactly have the desired effect on the musicians. 

"Snakes 'n' whats?" Magnus said. 

"They were that one glam band that was big in the eighties. They just broke up, remember?" Nathan said to Magnus. 

Magnus snorted. "Sorry, I didn't take 'Glitter and Assless Chaps 101,' okay? Who's this washed-up leprechaun?"

"The lead singer?" Nathan squinted at Pickles. "I mean, it doesn't look like him, but he was the only redhead."

"I don't recognize him," Magnus said offhandedly. He lit a cigarette. 

Pickles was feeling serious déjà vu right now, except sort of in reverse. This time, he was the rocker trying to join with the unknown rejects. And yet somehow he still seemed to be the one getting fucked. 

Nathan turned on a light, burning all their retinas. "Yeah, I see it," he said quietly. "You're Wicked Pickles from Snakes 'n' Barrels. They used to call you the Red Tornado."

"Yeah, s'me," said Pickles. 

Magnus chuckled. "Heh. Pickles. 'Kinda fuckin' name is that?"

"You shouldn't be talking," Nathan said. "Your name sounds like a brand of condoms made specifically for luxury SUV owners."

Magnus pretended to laugh at that, and shot daggers with his eyes at Nathan. "I thought you didn't keep up with this commercial crap?"

"I don't. They were all over MTV back in the day."

"Back in the day." Oh gods, Pickles didn't like hearing that phrase applied to him. He wasn't old, was he?

"So you drum too?" Nathan said. 

"Yeah. I actually did that before I ever even started guitar."

"Good, you're hire—"

"Hold on a fucking second," Magnus said. "We aren't giving another one of your guys a position as drummer unless we check him out first, capice? I'm tired of your shitty taste in rhythm sections."

"He was literally world famous for a bit, I don't think he qualifies as the kind of guy we normally get..."

It was weird for the tiny redhead to hear the two men discussing him like a cut of meat, but he'd gotten worse; from producers, from session musicians, from managers. He was good at keeping cool in hot situations, if he hadn't been drinking _too_ too much. Eventually the jury decided he'd try out on Doug's old drum kit. 

Pickles sat himself behind the kit and took it all in, that old, familiar sight. He clutched the drumsticks and felt power surge through his worn body. "Can I start now?" he asked. 

"Whenever you're ready," said Nathan. 

Pickles started with a simple rock beat that gradually grew more and more complex until it sounded like stuttering machine-gun fire was echoing through the room. He was amazed that he still had it together this well. And drumming in jeans, a cutoff shirt and sneakers was a lot more comfortable than playing guitar in platform heels and swishy, sticky nylon and satin. 

The two Dethklok members looked at each other, then back at the drumming fiend. He let himself go wild, hitting everything as fast and hard as he could while maintaining his steady bass beat. Cymbals flashed and crashed and the whirling dervish of the Red Tornado yelled with the effort of this drum solo.

"That's enough!" Magnus had to yell. Everything screeched to a halt. Pickles leaned forward, bent almost double, panting for breath and sweating. Fuck he was out of shape. 

"Do I get the—" the redhead began. He was interrupted by Nathan applauding him. 

"Brutal," the vocalist said with a deadly smile. "I knew you were right for us."

"I guess we can let you have the part," Magnus said. "Swing by the apartment with us, I guess. We'll give you the setlist for tomorrow."

Just like that, he was in. 

They all piled their gear into the cheap rusty van, then themselves. Magnus drove, Nathan sat beside him, Pickles in the back with the amps and wires. 

"Thank you guys so much fer doing this, seriously," Pickles said. Nathan had bought him a few drinks. 

"It's fucking brutal to have you here," Nathan growled with a grim smile. "Seriously. We all thought you were dead or something. Just disappearing off the face of the earth after Snakes 'n' Barrels like that."

"I got tired of it. That shit wasn't heavy enough for me."

"We're the heaviest of the heavy," Nathan said. He fist bumped Magnus and Pickles. 

Although they looked scary at first, Pickles discovered that Nathan was basically a the mind of a surfer/stoner stuck in the body of a vicious headbanging Corpsegrinder clone, and Magnus was a basically grumpy old cat that would attempt to claw you but was entirely ineffective. It was a slightly different pecking order than Snakes 'n' Barrels, but it was easy enough to fit in. 

"Hey," Pickles asked, "why the name 'Dethklok?' It's weird."

"It came to me in a dream," Nathan said. "I used to get these dreams of a brutal death metal band, a bunch of stars that would take over the whole world with their awesome music. But the lead singer's face was always blurred out. I searched everywhere for this band, but I couldn't find them, so we became them. So I'm literally living my dream, and we're destined to reach the top."

"The top ain't so great," Pickles slurred. "Once you get up there, there's nowhere to go but down."

"Sounds like good lyrics," the babyfaced singer grunted. 

"It's true," Magnus said. "And Nathan, you aren't the only one who gets dreams..."

They slowly got the band together. Well, it felt slow. Outside Pickles' head, it couldn't have taken more than a couple weeks, but every moment seemed to last twice as long with this much chaos and strife and loud melodeath. 

Pickles' knowing the way around pretty much every music scene in America came in handy too. Dethklok needed a bassist? Good. Pickles happened to know of one of the most promising young talents in the industry, who'd just got dropped from his band. 

The promising young talent turned out to have a long line of getting dropped from bands. No one could get along with him except one person, an even younger guitarist. Apparently the duo just slipped and slid around the metal business wherever they were needed, easy to hire but even easier to forget. The bassist was an American, actually from Florida. The guitarist was from Sweden, and barely spoke English. They weren't actually friends as much as partners bonded together by a mutual hatred for every other being on the planet. 

Heaven knows how they'd met; when Pickles and Nathan (Magnus was out somewhere getting high) checked them out they couldn't have been more different than night and day. The bassist was short and stocky, with a wiry mop of hair and features more appropriate to a gargoyle than a teenaged human. The guitarist was tall, blond, and lithe, with a permanent sneer stapled to his angular face. They were, however, two of the most uppity, annoying bitches Pickles had ever met. 

"William Murderfacshe," the bassist lisped. He shook the Dethklok members' hands. "You can call me Planet Pissh."

"Skwisgaar Skwisgelf, motherfuckers," the guitarist said. "Calls me Skyhunter."

"We come ash a package, by the way," "Planet Piss" said. "Both of ush or neither."

"Let's leave," Nathan muttered to Pickles. The new drummer had quickly become friends with the singer.

"No, hold on," Pickles replied. "These guys have it, I'm tellin' ya. They're in half the shit you hear on the radio these days."

"Fuckin' right," William snapped. "Do we get a word of thanksh?"

"Fucks noes!" the Swede replied. "Amens't sees a singles fucking thanks! Motherfuckings dildoes fuckings records guys!"

They both spat on the ground. 

"I'll trust you," Nathan said to Pickles, eyeing the filthy punks. 

"Watch. Guys, you brought yer gear, right?" Pickles said. 

"'Courshe, retard," Murderface snarled. 

"Fuckings retard."

"Fuckin' dipshit ginger cunt thinksh we ain't shmart enough to bring our own fuckin' 'quipment."

"Fuckings peoples got shits in dey heads in place of brains," Skwisgaar said. 

They duo snickered. They took their own sweet time setting up their crappy amps, even lighting up and sharing a joint in the room. Eventually they did get ready, however. Pickles made his way behind the drum kit. 

"Ready when you are," Nathan said, boredom in his voice. 

"Okays," Skwisgaars said. "Like we practiceds. Ones, twos, trees, fives—"

The two burst out in some old Black Sabbath song. Surprisingly, they didn't fucking suck. Even more surprisingly, they were good. 

They moved together with a practiced ease that suggested more years of wisdom than they could possibly have together. Every slap of the bass' strings was perfectly on point and every squealing riff from the guitar was poetry. Pickles could barely keep up with it. 

It was kind of like how an autistic kid can paint pictures far beyond their age or a schizophrenic man can become a brilliant math professor. Sometimes deficits or malfunctions in certain areas can lead to excess development in others. This was essentially the same principle, except seemingly these two were huge dicks who also happened to be amazing musicians. Even Nathan was tapping his toes. 

They finished and didn't bother bowing or anything. The bassist took a hit from the joint. 

"Gives me de moneys," Skwisgaar said. "Dildoes corporate pigs."

"I hate to admit you're right," Nathan said to Pickles, "but they are pretty good. I think we can take them. Magnus probably won't mind having another guitarist."

"Told you they were good," Pickles said, flashing that crooked grin. 

"Hey, you ain'ts no slouch yourselfs," Skwisgaar said. "Old man."

"I'm not that old," Pickles said. 

"I could shee this working," said the bassist. He gave them something between a gap-toothed smile and a grimace before unzipping his fly and pissing on the ground right there. 

Nathan and Pickles were confused. 

"I tolds you stop doings dat, motherfuckers," Skwisgaar said. "You ams going to gets electrecocuted froms the guitars amps."

"That shoundsh like an aweshome way to die," Murderface contemplated. "Electrocutshion by pissh. That'sh how I wanna die."

Magnus wasn't too pleased that they'd tried to get a bassist and ended up with an extra guitarist as well. They were all living in the same shitty rented duplex now, to save money. There were three bedrooms. Nathan and Magnus shared one, and despite insisting that it was totally gay, Skwisgaar and Murderface, who had since dropped the stupid nicknames, moved their few possessions into another room to share together. This left Pickles with his own room. 

Through the narrow walls of his bedroom as he bit the end of his pencil and tried to think up a chorus for a song he was writing, Pickles could hear Magnus and Nathan arguing. He couldn't help but press his ear against the wall and try to listen in. 

"I told you for the last time, I am not staying in this fucking band if that blond guy is in," Magnus was saying. "I'll quit and then you'll all be doomed."

"Come on," Nathan said. "He's just a kid. We're not trying to replace you."

"I didn't think you would," Magnus said. "You wouldn't dare."

"Don't gimme that," Nathan grunted. "They're both pretty good, anyway, but they're just kids. They play sloppy, they don't know what they're doing, they need _you_ to show them the ropes."

"Mm." Apparently Nathan attempting to butter the guitarist up had worked; he was silent for a bit. There was the sound of someone falling into a chair and letting out a deep sigh, then the sound of a lighter being flicked. 

"I need some help with these verses," Nathan said eventually. 

"I can't help you." 

"Come on. You know they always suck. I can't even think up a good middle eight."

"I told you, I'm not helping you," Magnus said. There was the sound of a guitar absently being strummed. "Go get your precious drummer to do it."

"Fuck you."

Pickles heard a door creaking open, heavy footsteps coming closer, a knock on his own bedroom door. He sat down on the bed and grabbed his pencil and notebook like he hadn't just been eavesdropping on the band leaders. "Who's there?" he said. 

"It's me. Nathan," said the singer. "I need some help with this song."

"Uh, come in," Pickles called. 

Nathan sat on the bed beside Pickles. His weight made the thin mattress sink down. He frowned down at his own pencil and notepad, which looked tiny in his massive hands. 

"You write songs, right?" Nathan said. 

"I try," Pickles said, surreptitiously showing his notebook under the covers. 

"It's like, I just get ideas in my head, but when I try to write them down they come out all jumbled around and fucked up." Nathan glared at the paper in his hands. 

"Mind if I see?"

"Sure."

Pickles looked at the lyrics. They were disoriented; half the words were spelled wrong and there were quite a few backwards letters. Nathan's penmanship was childish and scribbly.

"These aren't bad," Pickles said. 

"Yeah they are. They suck."

"What's it called?"

Nathan thought for a moment. "Seance of Blood," he growled. "Join hands around the table, draw the runes and dim the lights, blood starts running from the walls, you were born to die tonight! BLOOOOOD!" he went. 

Pickles laughed a bit. Nathan looked embarrassed. "No, I like it," Pickles said. "Okay, I can see you're not too great at, uh, writing. No offense. Why don't you just tell me what to write?"

"Um, okay. That sounds good," Nathan said. "Thanks."

They wrote the lyrics like this, then came up with some rough ideas for chord progressions and things. Nathan was surprised at how easy this was when you didn't have to fumble with a pencil and attempt to make letters that don't want to stay in place. Usually it took him a whole day to write a song. 

After that, they went out and had celebratory drinks. At the bar Pickles ran into an old friend and managed to hook Dethklok up with a gig bigger than anything they'd ever played before. When they got back home, after dark, they came into the living room and saw something strange. Magnus was sitting with Murderface and Skwisgaar, pointing at something on a piece of paper. They all had their instruments. 

"...And that's how the circle of fifths works," Magnus was saying. 

Murderface and Skwisgaar looked at the paper, then at each other, then back at the paper.

"Let's try Hey Joe in C now," said Magnus. 

Skwisgaar raised his hand. "I forgots my pick."

"You can borrow one. Right, ready?"

"That's adorable," Pickles slurred. 

Magnus looked up. "What are you guys doing back here?"

"You're helping them," Pickles continued. 

"No I'm not!" Magnus said. "I don't help anyone!" He went off to the kitchen to find his bourbon. 

_Take me out tonight  
Oh take me anywhere, I don't care  
I don't care, I don't care  
Driving in your car  
I never never want to go home  
Because I haven't got one  
No, I haven't got one_

Magnus Hammersmith thought he had the whole band figured out now, under his control. Skwisgaar and Murderface were never really obstacles. They kind of looked up to him. Nathan was headstrong, sure, but he was also apathetic, and he was aware that he didn't quite have Magnus' songwriting ability. 

The only one he didn't have following his command was Pickles the drummer. He was constantly undermining him, trying to go his own way, and Nathan seemed liable to take his side. Now that they were recording their first album, this was a huge problem. Pickles kept making things up, improvising instead of following the drum tabs Magnus had laid out for him. This was the third time today he'd done it. He was wasting valuable time; this recording studio wasn't being rented out for free. 

They took a lunch/smoke break. Pickles left the drum kit and went to take a piss. After a minute, Magnus followed him. 

The bathroom had a single toilet. The walls were painted dingy white and the ceiling was spotted with mildew and mold. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead. Pickles looked up and finished washing his hands at the leaky sink. 

"Hey, dude, ain't polite to barge in here," Pickles said. "Jest 'cos the door doesn't lock doesn't mean you can jest come in like that."

He headed to leave. Magnus blocked his path. The drummer looked up at the man who towered about nine inches over him, confused but not yet frightened. 

"What are you doing?"

"You really think you're something, heh?" Magnus crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the bathroom door. "You think disregarding all the careful work I put into these songs will get you ahead in life?"

"It's no big deal, man," Pickles said. "It's just little things. The songs sound empty without drum fills and stuff."

"Did you just imply that _you_ could do a better job of making up drum tabs than me? This is my band. What I say goes. Just because you were kind of famous a long time ago doesn't mean that you know everything about music. You think you know your way around the drum kit better than I do?"

Pickles wouldn't take this affront to his musical talent (and he knew he was musically talented) sitting down. He attempted to appear taller. "Yeah, that's right, I do." 

Magnus laughed humorlessly. There was something scary in his eyes. "Oh, you just think you know everything. You arrogant little bitch..."

"If you're so much better at drumming than I am, why don't you play drums instead?" Pickles knew that he was liable to get hurt, arguing like this, but he couldn't help it. 

"I would if I weren't so busy herding your directionless asses around," Magnus said. "I'm the band leader and you do what I say, now you play those fucking drum parts just how I told you, okay?"

"No."

"What's that?"

"I said NO!" Pickles yelled. "I know what I'm doing! Now let me out of here!" He tried to go past Magnus and found himself in a headlock instantly. "Let go of me, you fucking psycho!" The man was far bigger than he was and he knew he had no chance in a physical fight, so he'd have to fight dirty. He tried to bite Magnus' arm. This earned him a blow to the side of a face that reverberated through his entire body. He froze for a second and gasped for breath. 

He saw Nathan get in fistfights with people all the time, especially when drunk; they'd got kicked out of numerous bars for this very reason. He knew Skwisgaar and Murderface got in spats with each other all the time; at any given moment, one of them was walking around with a black eye due to some remark they'd made to the other. But he'd never seen Magnus raise a hand to anyone. Usually his imposing presence and that dead look on his face was enough to make sure no one crossed him. 

Everyone has a breaking point. 

"This would be so much easier if you learned to obey," Magnus hissed. 

"Let go of me," Pickles said, more subdued now that he realized the man's hand was at his throat. "Why can't you just chill? You're crazy."

"Crazy?!" The guitarist gave that weird rattling laugh again. "No, I'm not crazy, I'm perfectly sane." Pickles felt something sharp press into his back. "I'm just...a perfectionist."

"Is that a knife?"

"Mmmaybe," Magnus drawled in a way he probably thought was charming. 

"Oh, fuck off, you're crazy. Let go of me!"

"Don't kick me, cunt, I could have you unconscious and bleeding out on the floor in three fucking seconds."

"Fine! What do you want?"

"Just give up," Magnus said. "Do what I say and no harm will come to you."

Pickles was never the kind of guy who'd devote his life to a cause. He wouldn't march off into battle for his country, he wouldn't preach the Bible to people and tell them to live in fear of Hell, he wouldn't even buy his own car because the insurance was just too much of a commitment. But there were still a few things more important than this shitty flesh prison he was trapped in, and first on that list (well, second under alcohol) was music. He couldn't give in to this. 

"Never," he said. He felt the knife puncture his skin, felt blood drip wetly into his shirt. "Maybe we can work something out?!" he said quickly, because he wasn't quite ready to die at his bandmate's hands in a gross public bathroom. 

"Work something out." Magnus giggled to himself. "I'll tell you what we can work out. I don't have the time for all this arguing and stress and bullshit, so I will give you some creative freedom, even if it ends up costing us. But I can't have you forgetting who's in charge, can I? I've worked so hard to get this band under my control, I can't have you bringing it down, naughty thing. What to do, what to do?" The knife twisted deeper into the drummer's back. 

Pickles had a sick, cold feeling that he knew what was coming. 

"Maybe you could do me a little favor in return," Magnus said. "Maybe you could give me something."

"I—I don't know what you're talking about," Pickles stammered. His arms hung useless and limp by his sides. He wasn't even struggling any more. 

Magnus' mouth was centimeters from Pickles' ear. "Suck me off."

"No!"

"Alright, guess you'd rather die."

"No, no...let me go."

"You have to pick, sweetie," Magnus said. 

Pickles kicked at him and managed to break away. He felt his neck; it hurt from being partly strangled but it wasn't too bad—

He was flung into the wall. His breath was knocked out of him and his head exploded with pain from smashing into the wall. He gasped and sunk to the ground, hands rising up to cradle the back of his head. He blinked. His vision was blurry, but he thought he was looking at the bottom of the toilet. 

He was grabbed and pressed with his against the wall, neck bent awkwardly. He felt leather sliding over his wrists, a belt or something. He struggled and was rewarded with a sharp kick to the back that made his spine sing like an electric fence. He couldn't breathe, he was choking on air. His wrists were tied behind his back and he was turned around. Blearily, he stared up at Magnus from where he was collapsed on the dirty ground. 

Magnus knelt in front of him and fondled the knife. "Don't think I won't kill you," he said. "I will. And I can hurt you in so many ways." The knife traced across Pickles' neck and he struggled not to move. "I can push this knife under your fingernails and rip them up. Then I'll rip out every single one of your teeth and force them down your throat. After that I think I'll have some fun with your cock. I bet you've got a pretty cock. I'll peel the skin off it and I'll do it as slowly as I can, and then this knife is going up inside you." He smiled like he was telling a joke. "I'll slice your eyeballs open, and I'll do that good and slow too, and then I'll fuck the sockets, and then I'll fuck your mouth so you know what it tastes like. And when I'm done with that I'll cut your tongue off and hold you down and watch you drown in your own blood. I bet you'll have fun trying to talk back when you've got no tongue, bitch—"

"You're crazy," Pickles whispered. 

"Am I? Or am I just too sane for you to handle?"

"You've been listening to too much Cannibal Corpse."

Magnus pulled the drummer into a kneeling position, then traced his lips with his fingers. Pickles closed his eyes, but didn't retaliate. He could feel the knife playing about his neck and jaw. 

Magnus stood up, unzipped his fly and dropped his jeans. Pickles stared up at his cock. It was a bit bigger than Tony's—

God, why was he comparing this guy to Tony? Maybe he was fucked in the head, too. 

Magnus wound a hand through flaming dreadlocks and gently opened the drummer's lips. The redhead closed his eyes as he felt the tip of the guitarist's cock enter his mouth. He licked at it. He didn't feel anything at all. He didn't know why tears were streaming down his face and beading in the red goatee. 

"That's good," Magnus whispered. The soft caress of the drummer's tongue over the sensitive slit felt beautiful, nearly painful. He grunted softly. 

Pickles took the guitarist's cock in a bit deeper. Magnus let out a soft "Oh, fuck..." that reminded him even more of Tony. He tried to push the thought away, but it wouldn't leave.

Someone banged on the door. 

"Occupado!" Magnus yelled. 

"Oh my fuckings gods!" Skwisgaar said from outside the door. "You've beens in there forevers!"

"Fuck off!"

Magnus smiled down at Pickles. He brushed stray dreads out of the drummer's face, wiped spit off his chin. "You've done this before, haven't you."

"None of your business," Pickles said. He licked up Magnus' cock and felt it twitch, then took it in almost all the way, down his throat. 

Magnus leaned against the wall, gasping. "Please," he panted. 

Part of Pickles realized this was probably the only time Magnus would ever beg him for anything. Strange. 

It was over with pretty quickly. Magnus had been extremely vocal, deep moans and high-pitched gasps and pleasing whispers. When he came his hand clutched in Pickles' hair, pulling it just a tiny bit, almost gently. 

Pickles closed his eyes, the taste of cum making him gag. Magnus let go of him and he fell back against the wall. Magnus untied him and he still just sat there. 

The guitarist checked himself in the mirror momentarily. Before he exited, he said "Just do whatever you want with the drums, man."

Pickles felt empty, useless, like a flat tire. He stared up at a bug on the ceiling. 

When he went back into the studio Nathan asked if he was sick immediately. Pickles replied that he didn't know. Nathan gave him a couple bus tickets and sent him home. Pickles disobeyed and went to the bar and got drunk out of his mind, got kicked out for starting a fight, walked home and continued drinking in the dark, the bitter, burning taste of the wine on his sore throat and raw lips grounding him until he fell asleep and forgot for a while, just like he'd wanted. 

This all went on for a while. Pickles was insanely stubborn and Magnus kept trying to punish him. After a while, he didn't know if he was doing it because Magnus made him or because he wanted to. When he was with Magnus he felt needed in a way he hadn't since the beginning of his little dalliance with Tony.

He didn't know how he hid it. Booze was his friend, though. Where did that black eye come from? Oh, bar fight, no big deal. You look sick, are you okay? Yeah, hangover, it's alright. And of course he couldn't go to sleep at night without the warm blanket of intoxication surrounding him. 

One night he was so drunk that he could barely drum. Magnus had given him that bitchy look the whole ride home. When they got there he'd gone into his room with him and locked the door. Pickles immediately went down on his knees; however, Magnus wanted something more tonight. 

"Take off your clothes."

"I, I can't."

Magnus didn't even have to show him the knife. He knew it was there, in the sheath on his belt. 

"Take them off, or I'll hurt you."

"No, I'll do anything else," Pickles pleaded. 

Magnus hit him sharply across his face. He looked up, the left side of his face red and tingling, tears in his eyes. 

Magnus growled and turned him around, shoved him over on the bed so his face was pressed into dirty sheets as he kneeled on the worn carpet. Pickles wasn't sure whether he was terrified or embarrassed. Both was probably right. He bit his lip and braced himself. 

He felt Magnus yanking his black cargo pants down, then his briefs, baring him completely. Magnus was still for a moment, and silent. This was worse than if he'd broken out in rage instantly. This was pain in anticipation. 

"Fucking lying whore," Magnus said quietly. 

Pickles said nothing. 

"You're fucked up, you know that?" Rough fingers slid over his ass and thighs, across his entrance. He shied away from the touch. "Fucking freak. I knew there was something wrong about you, bitch. That's disgusting."

Pickles started crying 80-proof tears. His fists balled up and lay clenched, powerless and impotent beside him. He wanted to die. He wished he'd never joined this band, no matter how successful they were. 

He was disgusting, wrong, a freak, but Magnus fucked him anyway. 

_And if a double-decker bus  
Crashes into us  
To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die  
And if a ten ton truck  
Kills the both of us  
To die by your side  
Well the pleasure, the privilege is mine_

Toki Wartooth had changed the band's dynamic completely. Nathan was annoyed by his constant childish optimism, yet protective of him when no one was looking. Skwisgaar and Murderface, who had both mellowed out a bit and mostly broken out of their exclusive partnership, constantly seemed to be alternately vying for his attention and then spurning it. Toki was at the bottom of the pecking order, and to Murderface and Skwisgaar, that was a wonderful relief. 

What did Pickles think of him? Well, the drummer wasn't quite sure. He was a mystery. 

At least they'd cut Magnus out of his life. Eventually the guitarist had gotten bored of Pickles and moved on to abusing Skwisgaar and Murderface. Pickles hated him, yet missed him dearly, and the confusion made him want a drink. Magnus had grown so overbearing that even Nathan couldn't stand him any more. After kicking his ass, Nathan had promised the band that they'd never see Magnus again. Just like that, Nathan was unwittingly thrust into the position of single parent of the band. 

Toki had some kind of strange natural talent that Magnus had never had, although he never practiced, preferring to do strange things like play with stuffed animals and build model airplanes. The band hadn't been entirely sure about this misfit in a group of misfits joining them (except the Swede, who had insisted on it for some reason) but in their first show as a group, in a rundown metal bar called the Depths of Humanity, they'd realized that the innocent, cutesy little boy could rock as hard as any of them. The band felt that this was finally meant to be. They were no longer "Magnus and Nathan's band," they were "Dethklok." And they knew they kicked ass. 

Magnus had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth, possibly never to be seen again. This could be a good thing or a bad thing. 

Pickles lounged at the bar in the Depths of Humanity, sipping at a Coors Light with Nathan by his side. For some reason, he didn't feel the need to get drunk. 

Although he knew the workings of the music industry better than anyone else in Dethklok, how cutthroat and fickle it was, this was a new feeling for Pickles. Dethklok wasn't the same as Snakes 'n' Barrels. They weren't completely drug-addled. They didn't put more time into their costumes than into the songs. They weren't complacent; they were young and hungry. 

He finally fit in, because he was different. Nathan saw him as an equal. The singer didn't say it, but he could see it in his eyes when they talked. Nathan was honest and awkward and impulsive and for some reason all those things made him the perfect best friend. 

Pickles wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he was...well, not forgiving, but beginning to get over Seth and his parents, and Tony, and Magnus. He didn't know why he felt so self-satisfied when he remembered how much of a failure his brother was, or why a tear came to his eye when random things reminded him of Tony, or why he missed the abusive, narcissistic, possibly sociopathic Magnus so damn much when he was drunk. All he knew was that the old wounds were slowly healing. He'd been a failure, a fish out of water for his whole life, but things were looking up.

Sometimes Nathan bought him drinks, or came home with Taco Bell on those hungover Monday mornings. Tony had never done that. Magnus sure as hell hadn't, either. And Nathan had punched a guy in the face the other day for saying Pickles' drumming sucked. And Nathan hadn't even pinched his butt once. 

Some Children of Bodom song came on over the crackling radio. Nathan nodded his head appreciatively. 

Pickles was snapped out of his reverie by Nathan tapping his shoulder to alert him of a man approaching them. It was hard to see in the semi-darkness of the bar, but the man wore a sharp suit (which looked oddly out of place) and had glasses and light brown hair. He was slim and a couple inches shorter than Nathan.

"Hello," the man said. "Dethklok?"

"Two-fifths of it," said Nathan. 

"Good enough. I'm Charles Foster Offdensen, representative of Crystal Mountain Records, and I'd like to talk to you about possibly signing your band to the label..."

_Oh, there is a light and it never goes out  
There is a light and it never goes out_

"Picklesh?"

Surely it was too early to wake up. Pickles attempted to go back to sleep. He cuddled a bottle of vodka in his semi-awakened daze like a child (or Toki) cuddles a teddy bear. He'd been dreaming about his past, which was better than dreaming about his future; they were supposed to have a new album out in two months and he hadn't even touched his drum kit yet. 

"Pickle!" Toki yelled. 

A metallic, artificial guitar riff sounded from somewhere on the couch beside him. Pickles grumbled and blinked one eye open. 

"Picklesh," Murderface yelled from where he and Toki were sitting on the floor, playing Mortal Kombat, "anshwer your fucking shcellphone!"

In a confused and overhung dry-mouthed haze, Pickles answered the Dethphone and brought it to his ear. "Hello," he groaned, "Pickles...Pickles th' drummer here, how may we help you?"

"Hey, uh, it's Tony."

Pickles woke up most of the way. Quietly, he said "How'd'ja get my number?" He wasn't angry, just confused. He got up unsteadily and walked to the kitchen to get some water and aspirin while Tony talked. 

"Fansite, hah. All that shit's out there if you know how to look. Anywho, I wanted to call and ask ya somethin'."

"Um...I'm not doin' another reunion. We know how well those pan out, 'kay?" He ingested most of the aspirin, drank the rest of his water and looked in the fridge. 

"No. I wouldn't _do_ that, man. That's stupid."

"So, uh...why are you calling, then?" They hadn't talked except on business matters ever since...hell, ever since Snakes 'n' Barrels had collapsed. The spark had just died. 

"Well, thing is, I'm in a band now."

"Oh, really?" 

"Yeah. You can't keep me away from music."

"What kinda music d'you play?" Pickles found some nachos in the fridge. He licked one. Didn't taste too bad. 

"Don't laugh..."

"I won't."

"I know you will," Tony said. "But I don't even care, man. It's uh, alt-rock grunge kinda stuff—"

Pickles interrupted him with a laugh that he tried to disguise as a cough, before it actually turned into a cough, which made him choke on a nacho. He coughed for several minutes before the nacho dislodged itself. It skidded across the room and landed under the boot heel of a Klokateer who was carrying a box of Murderface's knives to take them to be polished. The Klokateer slipped on the moist nacho, threw the knives in the air, and fell to the ground. The knives stabbed him and shredded him to pieces. Blood pooled on the kitchen floor. Jean-Pierre the chef sighed and grabbed a mop. 

"You, uh, fuckin' okay over there, bud?" Tony said. 

"Yeah," Pickles gasped, "I'll be fine."

"...Okay. So we were scheduling our tour dates and I noticed that we're both in Austin, Texas on the same weekend. Dethklok and our band. So I was wondering..."

"Yeah?" Pickles said, putting extra olives on the nachos.

"Did you maybe wanna hang out on that weekend? Get a coffee or something? I mean, I haven't seen you in forever. And I'm a dick, I know it, but you guys aren't exactly angels either. I'm not asking you to forgive me, but, uh, we were friends. And friends shouldn't have to part like that."

Pickles was surprised at this. Tony had always been somewhat emotional, but this was out of the blue. It was an uncharacteristically reasonable-sounding idea and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. 

"It's okay," Tony said, "it was a stupid idea. Whatever."

"No, uh, actually," Pickles heard himself saying, "sure." Go big or go home. 

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'd like that," Pickles said. "I mean, I didn't wanna lose you either," he said quietly. "We kinda had a weird thing goin', but it's hard to find people to hang out with who are as fucked-up and weird as me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Tony.

"Good, 'cos it is one," Pickles said. 

"Cool...Shit, I have to go, our drummer's trying to write a song and it isn't going good and our keyboardist is having cymbals thrown at him. I gotta run. Text you."

"Bye, An-toni-o," Pickles sang, stretching out the bassist's name. 

_Click._

Pickles put the Dethphone down. Well, that was weird. But he was kind of actually looking forward to seeing his former bandmate again, getting caught up with things. He probably wouldn't be able to return to the level of intimacy they'd once had right away—he didn't think he actually wanted that at all—but they could still talk. 

They'd been pretty good friends. It was hard to keep friends in Dethklok, when you were so busy and people kept being killed in the most comically horrific ways imaginable. 

He found the weekend they were playing in Texas and set a reminder on his phone. It was pretty soon. 

They'd ended as lovers but maybe they could be friends again, although he wasn't sure whether this would be an old friendship or a new one. They'd both changed so much, and yet hardly at all, but Tony was still a pretty cool guy. And if Tony's band totally sucked, so be it. 

He grinned and finished his vodka and went off to bug Nathan.


End file.
